Who am I? Who are you?

There's something I've wanted to do for quite a long time, but I'm far too stingy to pony up the $100 it takes.

I want to have my DNA examined in The Genographic Project.

As the National Geographic web site says, this is not traditional genealogy. It's deeper than that. In my case, the project will look at my Mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA), which will tell me where the ancestors on my mother's side came from.

While some people who know me may suspect that the correct answer to this question is Mars, I believe that most of my ancestors were from central Europe in the grand and beautiful country of Bohemia. Don't bother looking for it on a map, since it isn't there anymore. A few other stragglers may have been Danish - which would mean origins somewhere near a Krispy Kreme - and some may have been German.

Nobody really seems to know for sure. On my dad's side, there is also Bohemian and Swiss, neither of which can be traced in this project because, alas, I do not have a Y chromosome. I have flat feet instead. The interesting thing about this is that a friend of mine (Jenny to your right in the links), my source to all things European since she lived there for one year as a teenager, says that I look quite Swiss. Couple this with the fact that a very nice Swiss man named Yves once befriended me and he looked a lot like my dad, and I think Jenny is pretty accurate.

With my luck, I'm sure that the test would come back and completely discount all of this. I would be a cross breed with roots in Ireland and Tibet. Come to think of it, that would be pretty cool, too. Alas, then I'd have to find new teams to root for in the Olympic curling and luge events.

I find all of this fascinating. I was reading up on this project and it has come up with some startling results. The article was about an "African-American" man who turned out not to be African at all. In fact, he even had Jewish roots. I think it's interesting that, on one hand, we completed discount our roots. Our ancestors came to America only a few generations ago, and yet we know very little about our own ethnic makeup. At the same time, we embrace broad cultural definitions of ourselves without really understanding what they mean. I would love to know more about my genetic roots. It probably wouldn't explain a whole lot about me - okay, I share DNA with Otzi the Iceman, now what? - but it certainly would be interesting.





I like thinking about ethnicity. Not in any sort of Aryan race sort of way, but just in enjoying the wide variation in humanity.

Where have all the cowgirls gone?

Earlier this week, I happened to interview a real life, genuine cowgirl. Who is married to a genuine roper. For those of you who are not up on your rodeo and cowboy terms, he uses ropes and does this show and rides around standing on the backs of horses. His wife Annie, my interviewee, currently sings, does a similar whip act and is chief bottle washer.

I found the entire interview entirely delightful. First of all, I love to meet people who are making a living at doing what they are passionate about. And, of course, the fact that they are riders and ropers and whippers is a bit unusual in itself. For those who want to learn more, you can visit their web site at www.vincebruce.com.

I also like the fact that they are sustaining a bit of American culture that is mostly in our past.

This got me to thinking. And now I am going to start to sound like an old fart in a rocking chair with my tobacco and a spitoon, but there were many things that were better in in the good old days. I cringe a little when, in the context of my good old days, "good old days" means 1970s (I associate this decade with Burt Reynolds, orange shag carpeting and songs like"Afternoon Delight") but there were indeedy good things that I do miss.

The non-proliferation of fast food. I remember starting any good, long car trip with a full stomach, an empty bladder and some sort of bag lunch. This was part frugality, but it was also due to the fact that most small towns didn't have a fast-food restaurant. They didn't have gas stations with sad little hot dogs rolling away post-mortem. Most local places closed on Sunday. If we were lucky, we'd find a Hardees. We used to stop at waysides to use the bathroom - "Don't sit on the toilet seat!" "Don't worry, Mom, I don't want to fall in the pit!" - and sometimes to eat. If I was truly hungry, my dad would buy me beef jerky at the gas station. It was good times.

Family TV shows. Yes, there's still the family hour on TV, but I grew up in an era where we regularly watched Lawrence Welk, the Donny and Marie Show, Sonny and Cher, Hee Haw and, if my dad was in charge, Benny Hill. Mr. Hill was not so much family entertainment, but I didn't get most of the jokes, so it was okay. Sitcoms are vile and I find that modern "family entertainment" is more risque than Benny Hill ever was. It's true that I was weaned on some pretty hokey entertainment, but it was entertainment. It took talent. It wasn't cheap humor.

Real family vacations. We are currently in the process of planning a two-week or so car trip to the Grand Canyon in homage to our heroes, the Clark Griswold family of Chicago. We have no plans to hibernate at any waterpark in America as part of this trip. We are going nowhere near Disney. We will not eat fast food (see first paragraph). We will not bring along a portable DVD player for the car. We will talk. We will see America first hand. We will take lots of boring pictures. We will eat what the "natives" eat, though I draw the line at Rocky Mountain oysters. I'm thrilled to think that our Grand Canyon room - already booked - comes complete without a television.

Modesty. I will be the first to admit that the fashions of, oh, say, the ladies of Lawrence Welk were quite atrocious. Full-length polyester dresses are and always will be fugly. I had this big wide pleather belt with faux silver grommets on it that I thought was all that, but now in pictures just looks really stupid. I wore smocked, bandeau tops that turned my chest skin into an accordion. My husband's First Communion outfit included vertically striped pants, white pleather shoes and a burgundy colored button-down shirt. It was bad. But not as bad as what people wear (or really, not wear) today.

But I am tired of seeing skin. I'm tired of explaining to my seven-year-old why she can't look like a whore while dancing around the definition of what a whore is. Moreover, I'm tired of seeing people who shouldn't wear those types of clothes wear them in public. They are blinding me and turning me into a pillar of salt. Cover up, for God's sake.

The loss of our American heritage in pop culture. I wish people were more interested in what it means to be an American. The days of storytelling in music are over, except with the surprising exception of Eminem. I've been listening to a lot of Johnny Cash (and I started before "Walk the Line," which I finally saw last week). and he was a great storyteller. I wish people were more interested in the past, in being things like cowboys. I wish people were more engaged in what it means to be an American, and I don't mean in any patriotic sort of way. History is not hokey.

One of my favorite songs, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot is a prime example. My daughter thinks it is a dirge. I think it's classic. A bit of trivia for you: It was the first song I ever peformed live in middle school band. My part was the triangle. I had two notes and I miscounted and missed the first one. I loved the song and the part so much that I stole the music and still have it somewhere. I have quite a history with this song and it makes me tear up whenever I hear it. Listen to the Chippewa. They didn't mess with Gitchehoomie and we shouldn't either.

Make life easier, please.

Instead of trying to come up with a resolution for the year, I started thinking about what would make life easier. The more I thought about it, the longer my list grew:

1. Make a pair of jeans that end at a comfortable midpoint ... somewhere between my rib cage and public bones would be nice. In my neverending (nearly a year) quest for a decent pair of jeans, I continue to come up empty. I don't find "mom jeans" appealing or comfortable, but I don't feel comfortable walking around with the threat of a whale tail... or worse. And can the silhouette on jeans be any more unattractive than they are now? Between the flare and the low rise, I look short, fat and dumpy. Let's not even discuss the muffin top.

2. Serve me realistic portions of food. Why are we so fat? Why do we look terrible in jeans? Because when we order food in a restaurant, we get enough for three people. I'm not a big eater, but I feel bad about wasting food. And don't feed me bad food, which, as a basic rule of thumb, comes pre-packaged, frozen or requires a can opener to access. I'm a label reader and if it has high-fructose corn syrup in it, I probably won't eat it.

3. Don't make me wait in line for inane things. Kudos to that bastion of slowness and mediocracy, the U.S. Postal Service, for introducing self-serve kiosks. If you could just keep the morons off the machines, we'd be in business. I was in the post office today, and I kid you not, there were 32 people in line for full service and two in line at the kiosk. The same person - with one package - was still punching buttons on the kiosk when I left after going from customer No. 32 to customer No. 1. I waited in line for 15 minutes to buy 20 two-cent stamps. Perhaps I was the moron?

4. Don't guilt me into donating to your cause. I have my pet causes, don't call me and tell me, "I'm not calling to sell you anything..." There's a reason why one of my favorite things to do is to play with telemarketers. They're more entertaining than hamsters.

5. Don't guilt me into buying fundraising things for your children, even if you are related to me. One of the world's greatest columnists, Mike Nichols of the Journal Sentinel, wrote a great column about this. You're only fooling yourself when you bring the fundraising sheets and the token, "Don't feel obligated to buy anything..." Yeah, right. There is a reason why I will never try to sell you anything. I don't want you to return the favor.

6. I really, really hate American pop culture, so don't expect that I'll read/eat/wear it just because everybody else is. Consider me your own personal anti-Oprah. Except when it comes to "Dog the Bounty Hunter." Remember, there's no ice in paradise.

It's Like Buttah

Just want everyone to know that my mom and dad came through for me once again this year.

Under the Christmas tree in a recycled Berghoff beer box was 10 pounds of butter this past Christmas Eve.

Thanks, Mom and Pop.

The Holiday Howdy

Okay, I will probably somehow stick my foot in my mouth at some point during this post, so I will apologize in advance. In other words, that's a shout out to all of you who send out Christmas letters with your cards: It's nice to hear from you. Really.

This is the second year my family (reality: me) has sent out our Holiday Howdy, a quirky and odd little newsletter, which was birthed from a "perfect storm" situation two years ago. Among other things, I was having problems finding a decent Christmas card. I have a tendency to get sidetracked by the publishing programs on my computer. I was also bored. I'm bored a lot, which is why I now blog. I also send out the cards. Just like I generally set up the tree. And dye the eggs. And buy the pumpkins. But I've been sharing the wealth lately on all of this. I'm tired of being a one-woman holiday show.

If you have not guessed already, this blog is brought to you by Mr. and Mrs. Scrooge, an all-purpose anti-holiday couple that eschews basically every holiday except maybe Veteran's Day. And yes, the rumor is true. We do generally take our Christmas tree down on December 25.

Anyway, thus the Holiday Howdy was born. I made a vow to myself in doing so. I would never, ever use it to brag about our previous year. It would become the Seinfeld of holiday newsletters. It would be about nothing.

That first year, I wrote about our septic system woes and the fact that we had a failed attempt at adopting a used dog, as viewed by our two cats. That would be the dog that was advertised to us as a "boxer," but in reality was a pit bull with jaws that opened wider than the hood of my Prius. I wrote about the fact that we'd spent thousands of dollars on two master's degrees and my husband - who hates going to school - had spent 23 of his 35 years as a student. There was no real mention of career aspirations or what he planned to do with those degrees or what had prompted him to go back to school in the first place.

I mentioned what I was doing simply because I had a hole on the back page. But I also threw in that I have only balanced my checkbook three times in 15 years. Which is quite true, I might add.

I do not have a good track record when it comes to traditional holiday letters. I once wrote a last-minute Christmas card to one of the women who stood up in our wedding. We'd met at camp in high school and lived on opposite sides of the state. We had a fantastic friendship maintained for years through letter writing. This was all pre-email and our letters would stretch to five or six pages longhand, sometimes twice a week.

Anyway, when I sent out the card on December 23, I wrote something that said, "Instead of boring you with one of those self-absorbed, Xeroxed holiday letters, just know that nothing's new, everything's fine and I'll write later."

On December 24, I received her card. Which was really a self-absorbed, Xeroxed holiday letter. The friendship never really recovered. I haven't heard from her in nearly a decade.

This year, there were more than a few in our mailbox. I do like reading them, but while doing so, my evil twin takes over. I start to dissect them, turn the words over and upside down. I peak behind the meanings. I'm a read-between-the-liner. I'm a doubting Tomasina.

The more bubbly, the more blessed, the more enthused the letter, the more inclined I am to think that all is not right in your world. If I can hear the trumpets of heaven playing as I unfold your letter, it's "uh-oh" time for me. My little card basket (something I would never buy, but was my Christmas gift last year from the Littlest Scrooge) has a cacophony of holy instruments playing in it this year.

A very good, longtime friend of mine writes a great holiday letter. It usually arrives after Christmas. It's funny, it doesn't take itself too seriously and it's highly realistic. It's her voice. When I read it, it makes me laugh. She writes about things like spitup and dueling children. And then she'll throw in something nice that happened to her family. Her life is not all rose petals and champagne, but it's real and it's genuine, just like our friendship which has sustained itself since middle school and now stretches between three states. She's the kind of friend that you like hearing from, whether it's a Xeroxed letter or a few sentences scrawled on the bottom of the card, along with an accidental chocolate thumbprint smudge.

Or a Holiday Howdy, printed upside down on the back because you can't remember which way the #@*$)@_ paper goes in the printer if you want to do double-sided copies.

The Best Gifts I've Ever Received

Though part of me suspects that I am beating this holiday/gift theme to death, I present to you yet one more, slightly inane blog entry. I almost feel like titling this, "English 101" in the corner and adding my social security number.

However, you are welcome to steal these for the upcoming holiday season if they tickle your fancy. With my anti-materialism bent, if this stops you from buying 2005's singing fish, go for it.

1. A ream of paper. Thank you, Dick and Ada. My dad was high school buddies with this guy named Dick and had, at one time, dated his wife Ada while in high school. This is ancient history, nothing weird here, at least nobody has elaborated it to me. My favorite story about Dick was that he and my dad used to get drunk and pee on the floor in the theater and their pee would roll down under the seats. This is something I do not condone nor would I recommend in any form. I just find it weirdly interesting in an odd sort of way. Dick and Ada have apparently become nudists in their golden years, or at least that was the last update I'd heard about them.

Occasionally we would stop at Dick and Ada's house in the Rapids when visiting my grandparents, and for some reason, the original "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" was always on TV and somehow, I always ended up the hospital with pneumonia. Anyway, Ada worked at the paper mill and one time she brought me a ream of paper (for no reason, I might add) which was just uber cool to a child who went through "typing paper" like toilet paper and was occasionally forced to use "scrap" (ugh) paper to draw on. A ream of paper, yeah. It was good. She probably stole it from her office.

2. A bracelet of "African" beads. My dad and our neighbor, Keith, went to downtown Milwaukee for something or other (they had a tendency to just disappear on Saturday afternoons and come back with weird dad things like bench grinders. Sometimes they'd take in aluminum cans or make other mysterious "dad" trips.) and my dad came back with these beads strung on copper wire. I have a vague memory of my dad saying they were from Africa. This doesn't mean that my dad and Keith went to Africa that Saturday afternoon - though maybe they did since I was never privy to or paid much attention to what they did - but rather that the vendor said they were from Africa. They were probably made on 35th and Cherry for all I know. These beads have a name which, of course, I can't remember. But I do know what guanxi is. Anyway, the beads are cool. For awhile, I thought I lost them and I was frantically looking for them for about a year, thinking they'd been misplaced. I never really have wore them, but they've always been on my dresser and they remind me of my dad. They've become more of a talisman than anything for me. I always thought it was a nice gesture that he bought them for me.

3. A broach. Well, this actually isn't my gift, but when my great aunt died, my great uncle gave my mom a Limoge broach he'd bought his wife in France after the war ended. I think it was basically just a leftover trinket for him that he really didn't know what to do with, but knowing what he went through in WWII and the fact that he was able to bring this delicate little thing home to her, there' s a lot of sentimental value there. It's not really my style, in fact, it's not my style at all (nor my mom's), but it would be a true honor to wear it. There are certain people that you feel honored to know in your life and Aunt Vi and Uncle Frank are at the top of my list. I bet my mom would let me borrow it if I was "very careful."

4. A "walking balloon," a loaf of really darn good bread and a newspaper subscription. Back before I was a writer, I worked a series of really, really sucky jobs. I had to because I was the "breadwinner," no pun intended. I HATED these jobs. I HATED these jobs more than Al Qaida hates the U.S. I happened to start a job on my birthday - a bad, bad omen - and though the job I applied for was "desktop publisher," somebody rearranged the letters on me to reform "receptionist." So, after spending a miserable eight hours answering the phone - and as you all know, I am a natural font of sunshine on most days - I drove home in a big funk and opened the door to our apartment. There I found the most ridiculous balloon with these accordion-paper legs wandering around our postage-stamp living room, a loaf of my favorite bread from Great Harvest Bread Company and a subscription to the Milwaukee Journal (okay, now that last one is a bit embarrassing to admit and I have since moved on to the Wall Street Journal) but my husband was recognizing my love of reading. I broke down and cried when I saw it because he'd made such an effort to find me things that he knew I would really like.

I could probably think of a few more, but my point is that none of these gifts broke the bank. But all of them really resonated with me. Now, if I could just find someone to buy me some butter, I'd be really happy this year.

What do I want for Christmas? Nothing.

In keeping with the holiday theme...

This holiday season has been a real struggle for me. As I grow older, I am finding more and more that I don't like things.

Things, that is, as a general group.

There are certain things that I love. I like my Mont Blanc fountain pen. It makes me feel like a writer when I use it. I once took it to the eye doctor's office after I was fitted for contacts. With my lenses, my newly restored 20/20 vision picked out the Mont Blanc white tip from his shirt pocket. He was an ink man. I said there was nothing like a fountain pen. Discussion ensued. I don't remember why I brought it in, but his receptionist ended up making a copy of it on her copy machine.

I like my Mrs. Beasley doll. I'm not a big doll fan. I would like nothing more if Barbie, the Bratz, those weird My Scene Dolls with the removable feet, et al would just disappear in one giant poof!, but there's something about Mrs. B. I must have played with her as a kid because her feet are all dirty and her hair is a bit ratty. I look at her and she fires off the neurons associated with my childhood.

I also like guacamole. But I don't know if that's a thing, per say. I also like Pepsi, but the high fructose corn syrup goes right to my behind and, to misquote my friend Jenny (see convienient link on the right), contributes to my "writer's ass."

But I digress. I am struggling with things this holiday season: The fact that I have to buy and receive them is just dampening my chi. I have a basement full of stuff. My daughter has a room full of stuff. There's stuff in piles all over my house. My husband would really like some Surround Sound stuff and some HDTVstuff.

Though I can understand that one. Watching TV in our house is an aerobic activity. When the picture goes out, you have to stomp your feet on the floor or the TV turns into a radio.

Do we really need any more?

I have spent the past three weeks looking for a gift for my in-law's holiday gift exchange. I have been through Boston Store, Target, even forced myself to walk through a Super Wal-Mart and came up empty handed.

Part of this is that I am buying for a wide audience. I don't know who will get my gift. So I have to be purposely all-purpose and generic in my selection. Theoretically, I could also end up with my own gift, though that has never happened. Someone has always taken my gift.

I can think of a myriad of quirky things that I would want: $20 worth of butter. A new snow shovel, one that won't cause my spine to shrivel and shriek in fear. Some wool socks. Sea monkeys would be nice. A bottle of red wine with a cork in it, not a screw top. A gift card to a bookstore (though I would just probably buy a clearance cookbook. I read cookbooks like some people devour Danielle Steele.)

I'm too practical, plus I can't see any of my in-law relatives being pleased with 9 one-pound blocks of butter.

Though, that would probably be better received than the $20 worth of M&Ms that made it into the men's gift exchange last year. Or maybe not.

That's not to say that I don't enjoy things. I like to look at things. But I don't like to have them around my house. I buy things when I need them, not when I want them.

That's a distinction that a lot of people cannot make. Or maybe they don't want to make it. Or, after a lifetime of conditioning to buy, buy, buy, they don't know how to make it.

When I think about it, I have always been the happiest when I haven't had stuff. When we were first married, all we really had were my parents' furniture castoffs, our wedding gifts and a really ugly apartment. I would save up for a week to buy a half-pound of shrimp to make pasta. We'd take walks. We couldn't afford to do much else.

But I look back on that time fondly. With nothing, happiness. It's always been true for me.

I find a delicious joy in throwing out something. I'm the ultimate anti-consumer. Wow, that cookie sheet looks now looks like it was in an A-bomb test. Yee-hah, throw the baby out! I get an unshopping high. My high point of this week was finally using up some ribbon I bought for our wedding decorations nearly 15 years ago. Man, it felt good to throw that spool out after packing and moving it SEVEN times.

I have decided on my gift exchange gift. I didn't buy anything. Instead, I made up a certificate, which I will wrap up in leftover wrapping paper. It says: 'Tis better to give than to receive. I will donate $25 in your honor to the charity of your choice.

I know there will be at least one taker.